Troy smelled of myrrh and arrogance. And you had snuck in. Not as warriors.

No, you were something else tonight. A Trojan and their lover, arm in arm, gold and silk draped over battle-worn limbs. It was a ridiculous guise, but it had worked. So far.

There were easier ways to die. Cleaner ways.

You thought this as you tipped your cup against your lips, wine dark as the blood that would be spilled if either of you were discovered. It burned, fragrant and rich, rolling over your tongue, and you swallowed slow. Careful. Everything had to be careful. Every breath measured, every glance weighed. A misstep meant ruin.

Diomedes sat beside you, his arm slung heavy around your waist, fingers resting at the dip of your hip. His touch was loose, easy, the kind expected of a husband deep in his cups, indulging in the revelry of the night. He played his part well, had not spoken of it, but you knew the disgust simmering beneath his skin. For a man who had torn through their ranks like a god, to sit among them now, playing at kin—it was an insult to his steel. But necessity was a sharper weapon than pride, and war had taught you both to wield it.

It was strange, to see him in the garb of the enemy, draped in finery instead of bronze. Strange, but not wrong. He wore it as he wore anything—with that quiet, relentless certainty. The same glint in his eye, the same coil of restrained violence humming beneath his skin. A wolf in silk was still a wolf.

Across the hall, nobles lounged, careless with their words. Troy would never fall. The Greeks would break before they did. The war would be won in a matter of months. Months. As if the corpses rotting beyond the Scamander had not thought the same. They spoke freely, carelessly. And so you listened.

"They don’t fear us.”

Diomedes' chuckle was low, the edge of a blade hidden beneath velvet. It was stiff. He turned, and for the briefest moment, his nose brushed against your temple, an intimate touch meant to be seen, meant to be believed. “They should.”